Hauling his only possessions in a small red backpack, 53-year-old James Walker nods toward a needle-and-glass-dotted cement slab on the border of Overtown. Dirt is caked under his fingernails, and the whites of his eyes have turned the color of scrambled eggs. "If I were a billionaire," he says, exposing a few lonesome teeth, "I'd do somethin' good for this place. Ain't nothing but rat holes and drug... More >>>